Looking for Me (19 page)

Though the bedraggled teddy was most likely worthless, I had fallen in love with his sweet old face. Placing him on the corner of my desk, I gave him a pat and turned out the lights.

I
t wasn’t long after that day when I sensed the first winds of a retail slowdown. Prior to Christmas I’d sold several pieces of sterling and landed a home for a Norwegian polychromed console table I’d had for nearly two years, but sales of the big-ticket furniture items had plummeted, and I didn’t know why. Whenever my shop had hit a slow period in the past, I’d wheel and deal and do whatever it took to push through the lean times, and I always managed to survive while many other shops closed their doors.

But something about this felt different.

By the end of January, I was deeply concerned; even the repair and restoration business had dropped by over 25 percent. When February came to a close, I was scared, so scared that I woke each morning with a tightening in my throat. Every Monday when Inez gave me a copy of the financial sheet, my stomach sank. She never said a word, but it was impossible to ignore the worry in her eyes.

Though I had no control over who walked through my door or what they might be looking for, I had no one to blame but myself. During the summer of the previous year, my contact in London had sent me photographs of two exceptionally rare antiques he’d found in North Yorkshire. I became greedy and purchased them both—a colossal Louis XV armoire with beautifully carved leaves and scrolls along its curved canopy and the pièce de résistance—an exquisite sterling-silver George III monteith bowl with an impressive domed lid. Crafted during the Regency period with elaborate Rococo-inspired repoussé designs, the bowl was hallmarked
1818—THOMAS GAIRDNER
—a silversmith of renowned talent.

Both the armoire and the bowl were once-in-a-lifetime pieces with prices to match, but I felt it was time to raise the bar and align myself with the dealers in Atlanta and New York. It was a daring move, but one I felt ready to take.

While I suspected that the monteith bowl might take a while to sell, I was certain the armoire would all but fly out the door, and though it drew a great deal of attention, no one had made an offer. Every morning I’d unlock the front door for business, turn to face the four-hundred-pound beauty that had become an albatross, and wonder why it hadn’t sold. As for the bowl, it sat behind the locked glass doors in the illuminated display case, a glaring reminder of my lust. I could hardly look at it without feeling sick to my stomach. It had taken over a third of my yearly purchasing budget to acquire the two pieces, and each week that they didn’t sell, my funds were further depleted. In retrospect, my daring move had proved to be foolish.

My first priority was to pay Albert and Inez, and I managed to scratch up enough to make the shop’s monthly rent, but there was no money left for me to take a salary. I struggled to meet my personal financial obligations—especially Grammy’s nursing-home care. No matter how many sales I advertised or how many discounts I was willing to give, the bell above my door remained virtually silent. Each month I dipped deeper into my savings, and by mid-March my dream of buying a home slid further from reach.

I was particularly depressed about my current state of affairs when, on the first Monday in April, the bell above the door rang. A distinguished-looking gentleman stepped into my shop, and he appeared to do so from an entirely different era. Dressed in a cream linen suit with a pocketwatch chain draped across his silk plaid vest, the man walked with the aid of a stylish pewter-tipped cane.

“Good morning, sir. Welcome. I’m Teddi Overman.”

“Pleased to meet you, Miz Overman. I’m John Jacob Lee from Shelbyville, Tennessee,” he said, seeming pleased that his name and home state rhymed.

“How may I help you today, Mr. Lee?”

“My granddaughter’s getting married. If my wife were still alive, she’d know exactly what kind of gift to choose, but I’ve been on my own for quite some time. The groom comes from a fine Charleston family, and they just presented my granddaughter with a sterling tableware set that’s been in their family since the Civil War. Now, here’s the thing—I don’t want to be outdone, so I’m lookin’ for something mighty special.”

“What would you say her style is?”

He leaned against his cane and raised his eyebrows. “Well, I’m sad to say she doesn’t have any. My granddaughter is a wonderful girl, but unfortunately she has the taste of an onion. I’d like to give her something she can be proud of, something she’ll pass down to her children. So what would you suggest?”

“Right this way,” I said, stepping to the glass case where I displayed my finest pieces of sterling.

Before I even got the key into the lock, Mr. Lee pointed toward the monteith bowl. “Well, that makes a statement, doesn’t it? I’d like to have a look.”

Reverently, I lifted the bowl from the case and set it on the table in front of him, the sterling glowing softly beneath the overhead lights. “This piece is exceptionally rare.”

“It sure is pretty, but what’s it used for? Fancy casseroles?” he asked, rubbing his fingertips over the laurel-leaf handles.

“It was designed to cool wine goblets. After the bowl was filled with ice water, goblets were placed facedown with their stems resting in the decorative depressions along the rim. I’ve also seen these bowls used as centerpieces on dining-room tables, and they make gorgeous containers for floral arrangements . . .”

As I told the old gentleman the history of monteith bowls, he picked up the lid and seemed to enjoy feeling its substantial weight in his hand. He smiled with approval. “It’s got some heft to it.”

“Yes. Due to its rarity and exceptional condition, the price of forty thou—”

“My dear girl, please don’t spoil my enjoyment,” he said with a wry smile. “If I had to ask the price, then I most likely couldn’t afford it. What matters is the pleasure I’ll get from presenting this gift to my granddaughter.”

The lid made a gorgeous
ting
when he set it back on the bowl. “Over the years money and I have come to be quite good friends. When it lands in my hands, I never squeeze my fingers. I just enjoy it and let it go. Seems the more I let it go, the more it keeps coming back,” he said with a wise chuckle. He reached into his breast pocket and removed his wallet. “I assume you take American Express?”

I thought my head might explode.
Oh, sweet merciful God in heaven, he’s buying it?
Somehow I managed to keep a placid look on my face and simply say, “Certainly.”

“Will you gift-wrap it for me?”

“I’d be happy to, Mr. Lee. Please take a seat and make yourself comfortable,” I said, gesturing to a Victorian chair. “Would you like something to drink?”

“No thank you,” he said while easing himself into the chair. “I’ll just sit here and watch people go by. As you can see,” he said, tapping his cane against his shoe, “I’ve got a bum leg. I wonder if you might be kind enough to carry the bowl out to my car.”

“Of course.”

Little did he know that I’d have walked barefoot all the way to Tennessee to sell that bowl.

I picked it up and carried it into the back. As I ran his credit card through, I begged,
Please, please, oh please
 
. . .
I nearly yelped when the approval number appeared on the screen. After gathering a large box and copious amounts of tissue, I wrapped the gift with white-on-white-striped paper and a wide silk ribbon that I tied in an extravagant bow.

I was careful not to make finger marks on the wrapping paper as I carried the box out to the showroom. Mr. Lee rose to his feet when he saw me coming and opened the front door. “My car’s right there,” he said, pointing three spaces down from my shop.

He walked by my side, his limp pronounced as he maneuvered along the uneven sidewalk. When we arrived at his car, an older-model Chrysler in pristine condition, Mr. Lee unlocked the trunk. Leaning his cane against the bumper, he helped me place the box inside. He did so with great effort.

“It’s a terrible thing, this aging business. I’ve never gotten used to it. Every day I’m shocked by how much my bones betray me.” He closed the trunk and looked at me thoughtfully. “You’re a pretty woman, Miz Overman. But pretty only goes so far. What really matters is how nice people are. I’d like to thank you for your lovely smile and kindness.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lee. I believe you’ve made my day.”

“There’s a young man imprisoned in this body,” he said, pointing toward his chest. “And that young man is quite taken with you, my dear.”

I didn’t know what to say. What
could
I say?

“But . . .” He raised his woolly eyebrows in resignation as his voice trailed off.

Caught in a wave of grateful relief from the combination of selling the monteith bowl and Mr. Lee’s gentlemanly ways, I stepped forward, took hold of his hand, and gave him a light yet lingering kiss on the cheek. He didn’t look so much surprised as pleased.

I smiled and squeezed his fingers. “I hope you’ll come back and see me again, Mr. Lee.”

He leaned against his cane and bowed. “God willing, Miz Overman. God willing.”

When I walked back into the shop, Inez was waiting with the credit-card slip in her hand, her eyes wide. “I don’t know what surprised me more—that you sold the bowl or
who
you sold it to!”

“What do you mean? Has Mr. Lee been in the shop when I wasn’t here?”

“No. But when I saw his name and the Shelbyville, Tennessee, address on the receipt, I about fainted. Not long ago
Time
magazine had a big write-up about him. He’s famous—came up from nothing, and I’m talking the kind of dirt poor where none of the children had shoes. He’s made a fortune in the preserves business. His elderberry jams have won all sorts of awards.”

I glanced out the window. “Well, famous or not, I’ll remember him for as long as I live.”

The sale of the monteith bowl had saved me from having to take out a loan, but it would be a year or more before I could rebuild my personal savings. Which is why, when a phone call came three weeks later, I was both relieved and heartbroken. The call lasted just a few minutes, but the result would be forever.

When I hung up, I grabbed my sweater and stepped into Inez’s doorway. “I’m going for a walk.”

She stopped typing and peered over the top of her glasses. “What happened? You look like hell. Are you sick?”

I shook my head. “I just need some fresh air.”

The past few days had been unusually cold, and I pulled up my collar against the chill. I walked with my eyes cast downward until I turned off the sidewalk and stepped onto the narrow path that led into the cemetery. I sat down on the bench and folded my hands in my lap. “This is a bad day, Pernelia.”

The wind increased, and bloated clouds lumbered through the sky. Elbows to knees, I rested my head in my hands and thought about my family, my life, and how much I wished I could do it all over again. Do it better. I could feel myself sinking into a dark place when I noticed a little woman come around the side of the church. She was lugging a heavy tote bag that gave a wobble to her stride. Sprigs of gray hair poked through the holes of her green crocheted hat, and her coat hung open and flapped in the wind.

Though there were plenty of places to sit, she eased herself down on the opposite end of
my
bench. She smiled, dug through her tote, and removed a thick wool sock. Pushing her hand inside, she drew out a tiny porcelain shoe and gave it a quick polishing with the end of her scarf. I knew right away the shoe was an antique from the Edwardian era. Had I not been so depressed, I would have asked her about it.